


Perpetual Motion

by Salr323



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e20 AC/DC, Episode: s02ep23 Johnny and Dora, F/M, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 03:39:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4206579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salr323/pseuds/Salr323
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suddenly she has to look away, down at the old pizza boxes on the floor, at the random socks and clutter of an apartment too small for its occupant.  She wonders if anywhere is really large enough to contain Jake Peralta.  “You’re not invincible, you know,” she says quietly.  “And I’d hate –”  She stops it right there, because it’s getting too close to what’s real and she can’t let that out of the box.</p><p>Episode tag for 'AC/DC.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perpetual Motion

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to 'Pros and Cons' but you don't have to have read it to get this one. Big thanks to fried_flamingo for the beta! :)

Amy hesitates outside Jake’s door, wrestling with a bag of groceries and her conscience. There’s no reason for her not to be there – Jake’s a colleague and a friend, and it’s totally normal for her to come check on him after his run in with the ACPD patrol car. Most of the rest of the squad have already visited.

So there’s no reason for her not to be there – except that things have been a little weird between them since that oddly romantic moment at the wedding. It’s made everything a little flirty again, a little ambiguous, and a good deal more heightened. She doesn’t quite know what to think about it, so mostly she tries to not think about it at all. But the jolt of fear she feels when Holt tells them that Jake is _en route_ to the hospital leaves her feeling hollow and shaken. Also, angry. After all, what the hell was he thinking, chasing down a perp alone and injured? He could have gotten himself killed.

It’s that flare of anger that makes her rap on his door rather more sharply than she intended. Anger is so much easier to handle that that other, complex emotion she’s ignoring, and she embraces it right up until the moment Jake opens the door. Then it disappears like mist. 

“Hey, it’s you!” he says, as if her being there surprises him. 

But it’s not the smile or his surprise that blows her anger away. It’s his pallor, it’s the bruise on his cheekbone and the hunched way he moves. He’s genuinely hurt and the reality of that cuts through everything else. “Oh my God,” she says, “you look terrible.”

“Title of your sex tape,” he jokes, and then grimaces, pressing a hand to his ribs. “Okay – ouch – deserved that.” After a slight hesitation, he steps back from the door to let her in. “I should warn you,” he says, with a glance over his shoulder, “a roaming band of monkeys recently invaded my apartment and that’s why it looks this way. Normally it’s super tidy.”

She smiles, despite the way her emotions are trying to slip out of her control, and follows him inside. It actually does look like a roaming band of monkeys has taken up residence. “Jake,” she says, horrified, “how can you live like this? I can’t even see the floor.”

“Why do you need to see the floor?” He makes his way cautiously to the sofa. “It’s right where it always is.”

Amy hesitates on the outskirts of the chaos, watching as Jake lowers himself, wincing, onto the sofa. He’s unshaven, his hair is muzzy, and he’s dressed in faded Academy sweats. A precarious heap of plates, mugs, and pizza boxes sits next to the sofa and it doesn't take a detective to figure out how he’s been living since his discharge from hospital.

He sees her looking and says, “I call it the Leaning Tower of Pizza.”

“Jake,” she sighs, “are you actually living on your sofa?”

He gestures towards the loft – his _bedroom_ , her brain insists on mentioning – and says, “I can’t get up.” 

She glimpses his rumpled bed and her eyes skitter away, but she’s sure he’s noticed so compensates by blurting, “Title of your sex tape!” 

“It’s so not,” he protests, but his eyes dance with amusement and his mouth twitches into a smile that’s a little too knowing.

Awkward, Amy frowns down into her grocery bag and heads across the room. “I'm going to put this in the kitchen,” she says. 

“Don’t—” He tries to get up but stops, grimacing, and hisses pain through his teeth. “Don’t … open the fridge.”

She doesn't dare imagine why, and doesn't risk finding out.

The kitchen is a total disaster zone, so she abandons the groceries on the cluttered counter and turns back to the living area. But she stops in the doorway because Jake’s leaning back on the sofa now, blowing out controlled pain-filled breaths, his eyes closed and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looks exposed, fragile, and a sudden swell of affection blooms in her chest. For a moment all she wants to do is hug him. Or something. 

Instead, she tightens her grip on the door-jamb and clears her throat. Jake opens his eyes, watching her as she picks her way back through the mess toward him. “Do you have pain meds?” she says, because clearly he needs meds way more than he needs a hug.

“Don’t need ’em,” Jakes says.

“Um, yes you do.”

He shakes his head. “They make me spacy.”

“That’s why you’re on leave, Jake. So you can be spacy and get better.” She sits down next to him on the sofa, keeping a careful distance. “Where are they?”

“Somewhere.”

“Don’t make me search for them.”

He sighs. “Fine. Somewhere in my jacket.” Which is slung over the back of his last remaining massage chair. “In my wallet.”

Gingerly, she rifles through his jacket pockets and pulls out the sunglasses case he uses as a wallet. Inside, she finds a slim packet of Tramadol, but there’s something else that catches her eye too. It’s a piece of folded paper with her handwriting on it. When she opens it, she sees that it’s the note she left for him that night at Boyle’s beach house. She glances over at him, her heart giving a little twist at the thought of him keeping the note, of him carrying it around with him. But Jake’s not looking at her; his determined gaze is fixed on the ceiling instead. If he saw what she found he doesn't want to acknowledge it, so she slips the note back into the case and goes to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen. 

“Hold out your hand,” she says when she joins him on the sofa again.

He does, without comment, but he’s looking at her in that questioning way he sometimes does and she feels her skin flush. Taking the glass from her he knocks back the pills and washes them down with a grimace. “Ugh,” he says, “who drinks water?”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she says, “You should lie down. The packet says sleepiness is one of the side effects and you need to rest.”

“You’re not leaving already?” He keeps it light, but there’s something in his voice that tugs at her. It’s not exactly need, but something very much like it, and she finds it difficult to resist.

“I’ll stay for a while,” she decides, glancing around the lonely chaos of his apartment.

He gives her a grateful smile, the kind of smile that makes her stomach flip, and somehow it traps her so that they’re gazing at each other for a couple heartbeats longer than comfortable. Then his expression changes and he looks away with a slight shake of his head. “Terry was _not_ happy with me,” he confesses. “I shouldn't have gone after the perp like that. It was stupid.” 

He looks at her again and she knows he wants something from her. Approval, maybe? If so, she can’t give it to him. “It _was_ stupid,” she says. “Don’t do it again.”

“Chase perps?”

“Get yourself hurt.”

He lets an awkward beat fall. “I’m fine.” 

“Maybe you are this time,” she says. "But what about next time …?” And suddenly she has to look away, down at the old pizza boxes on the floor, at the random socks and clutter of an apartment too small for its occupant. She wonders if anywhere is really large enough to contain Jake Peralta. “You’re not invincible, you know,” she says quietly. “And I’d hate –” She stops it right there, because it’s getting too close to what’s real and she can’t let that out of the box. 

He’s silent, they both are. After a while he shifts so that his leg brushes against hers, even though she thought she was sitting a safe distance away. Somehow, she’s gotten closer than she intended. 

“I’m not always a great team player,” Jake says then. “I have trouble believing people have my back.”

“I know.” She offers him a sideways smile. “Worse second ever, remember?”

He grimaces. “Was that in the ‘con’ column too?”

She can feel her face heat as she remembers their drunken conversation that night. “No, it wasn't in the ‘con’ column.”

He’s silent again and she risks a quick glance. His head has lolled back, eyes closed. She’d have assumed he was asleep if it hadn't been for the slight frown creasing his forehead. She thinks the Tramadol is starting to work, and she’s just wondering whether to make him lay down when he says, “What _was_ in the ‘con’ column, Amy? How come I lost to the Pilsner guy?”

“Jake …”

“I’m a good cop,” he says. 

She stares, not sure whether he’s serious. “You’re a great cop, Jake. But it’s not about being a good cop.”

“It’s not?” His eyes open and she can see that his pupils are a little blown. “But that’s all I've really got.”

“What do you mean?”

He sweeps an arm out, gesturing around them. It’s a sloppy, slightly drunken gesture. “I'm a mess, Santiago. Apart from at work, I'm a mess. That’s what you think, right?”

“I don’t think that.” 

“Then why not me?” 

She can’t answer that, beyond the fact that she’s made both an art and a virtue of self-denial. “You should get some sleep,” she says instead. “Lay down.”

He shakes his head. “Hurts more, lying down.” But his words are slurring now and he can’t seem to keep his eyes open. 

There’s a blanket in a heap at the end of the couch and she shakes it out, dislodging the TV remote which clatters into the pizza boxes. His eyes flicker open when she lays the blanket over him and there’s nothing but honesty in them, “Ames …” he says and lifts a hand toward her, but if there was more to come it’s lost and his hand falls into his lap. His eyes close, his breathing slows, and he’s asleep. 

She sits watching him for some time, tracing the lines of his face with her eyes. It makes her realize how much time she spends _not_ looking at him, denying these awkward feelings tumbling about inside. 

_Why not me?_

It’s a good question and there are so many reasons, but right then she can’t seem to recall any that matter. Even the horrible mess that is his apartment feels unimportant. She thinks that, if he’d died in the accident, the state of his finances or his apartment would never have crossed her mind. And the risk of workplace awkwardness would have seemed a banal reason for never telling him how important he’s become to her. She thinks that what she’d have remembered was the way he put himself out there, laying his feelings for her on the line, and how she left him dangling there alone. 

She thinks it’s not such a surprise that he doesn't trust her to have his back.

It’s a sobering thought and she’s not sure what to do with it, sitting there next to him while he sleeps. But then her eyes fix on his jacket slung over the back of the chair, on the mess and disorder, and she knows what she can do for him. Amy Santiago is nothing if not a bringer of order.

Jake sleeps for hours and Amy spends the time tidying, cleaning, sorting. By midnight the kitchen is clean, the refrigerator – and, God, it _was_ gross – is scrubbed and stocked with the groceries she brought over. The living room floor is visible, the trash is bagged and ready to go, and she sits back down on the sofa, exhausted. 

She thinks she should leave now, let him sleep and maybe call in the morning. But it’s late, she’s tired, and – most importantly – she doesn't want to leave him alone tonight. She’s done that too often recently. So she dims the lights, slips off her shoes, and curls up on the sofa next to him. Carefully, she adjusts the blanket so she can steal a little warmth.

It’s only when Jake loops his arm over her shoulder and pulls her close that she realizes he’s awake. Automatically she draws back, afraid of what she’s doing. “Jake—”

“Stay,” he murmurs, fixing her with a drowsy look.

“Jake …” 

“Please? I want to wake up with you.”

She knows that his unfiltered honesty is the Tramadol talking, but the warmth in his eyes is all him and his words almost break her. The professional thing to do would be to leave, but tonight she’s tired of being professional. It’s been a long few days and she can’t shake the ghost of ‘what if?’ What if the car had been going that bit faster? What if he’d rolled under it? What if he’d died? 

She wonders what that other, grieving, Amy would tell her to do right now, and, for once, the answer is clear.

She moves closer, slips her arm around his waist, taking care not to jostle his ribs. “Go to sleep, Peralta,” she says, and rests her head against his shoulder. He’s warm and comforting and she smiles as his arm tightens around her. 

“I’m gonna get run over more often,” he murmurs, his breath stirring the hair on the crown of her head.

She smiles. “One time only deal.”

“Mmmm,” he says as his head comes to rest against hers. “So worth it, though.”

She expects to stay awake all night, but she’s asleep within minutes and when she wakes the next morning she feels better rested than most days. She thinks that’s odd for having spent the night on someone else’s sofa, but doesn't investigate the phenomenon any further.

Jake is in the kitchen, making coffee. He’s still moving awkwardly, but she thinks he looks better when he shuffles back into the living room and hands her a mug. “You put vegetables in my refrigerator,” he says, undercutting the accusation with a fond smile. “And you found the floor.” He eases himself back onto the sofa. “Thank you,” he says. “You didn't have to.” 

There’s an embarrassed quirk on his lips, so she doesn't tease. Instead she sips her coffee and decides to be brave. “I lied about the ‘con’ list that night,” she says. “There was only one thing on it.”

He goes still. “Oh?”

“It was this,” she says, lifting her eyes to meet his gaze. “I was afraid of risking this – our friendship, our working relationship. I don’t want it to change, Jake; it’s too important to me.”

 _You’re too important to me._

She hopes he can read the unspoken truth between the lines, but all he does is give a brisk nod and look away. “Smart,” he says. “Good call.” 

She tells herself he means it. She tells herself she’s saved the day and that everything between them will go back to normal. 

She tells herself that right up until the day Holt leaves – the day Jake pulls her into his arms and kisses her, changing everything. 

In that dizzying moment of clarity, she sees how foolish she’s been. Her relationship with Jake won’t fit into a spreadsheet; it could never be constrained by a list of pros and cons. He’s an elemental force for change, mercurial and impulsive, but ultimately irresistible.

Teddy, and a half dozen other boyfriends before him, had been steady as rocks. Life flowed around them but didn't change them, and for the longest time she’d thought that she wanted that kind of stability. But standing in the lockup with Jake, drifting in the wake of his reckless kiss, she discovers that what she really wants – what she really _needs_ – is change. 

Being with Jake means perpetual motion, it means a constant, exhilarating rush, and all Amy can do now is decide where she wants it to take her. 

She thinks it could be someplace awesome.


End file.
